Hit and Miss
by thatmasquedgirl
Summary: Alternate universe. *It's supposed to be a happy, momentous occasion, but fate has other plans in store. Especially for Felicity and Oliver.* Yet another way Oliver and Felicity could have met, this time with press credentials, a sniper rifle, and an unlikely alliance. THANKS FOR 200 FOLLOWERS ON TUMBLR! Complete.


**Title: Hit and Miss  
>Word Count: 8569<strong>

**Notes: **First of all, I AM SO SORRY. This is what happens when you give me prompts: I change them and warp them and make them into something freakishly weird. :P

This prompt was suggested to me by sophie1973, and it was written as: "Oliver & Felicity meet at a wedding. Line of dialogue: 'Are you kidding me? We're not fine!'" JUST REMEMBER, YOU ASKED FOR IT.

This should serve as a lesson to you all no to give me vague prompts. Because Ezra (my muse) takes "meet at a wedding" and writes it. And then he cackles afterward because he's found a legal loophole of sorts. This one's would be "Well, she said meet at a wedding-she didn't say _how_ they had to meet at the wedding."

Also, I'm not familiar with the comics at all, so I pulled the name Victoria Vale off of a list. I know nothing else about her, so if I screwed her up, I'm sorry. I did do my research, though.

Anyway, thanks to each and every one of you for giving me those 200 followers, and I thank you all for reading. Feel free to drop a review if you have the time, but if not, thanks for just reading. :)

* * *

><p>Felicity sits in the back row of the outdoor seating, watching the scene around her with a yawn, ever vigilant even if she appears otherwise. Her eyes scan the scene as she determines where she'll be in a few moments, even if she's bored beyond belief. It's truly one of the most dry, dull affairs she's ever been to, and that includes her weird cousin's wedding held in the Nevada desert because his bride-to-be liked the atmosphere. By the time they had finished, everything had been covered in sand, including the cake, which did <em>not<em> taste good to begin with because it had been one of Aunt Marge's (Aunt Marge who uses _way_ too much salt). And that doesn't even include the cactus needles—she swears up and down she found one in her skin _yesterday_, and that nightmare was _three months ago_.

Fortunately, Starling City's weather is much more conducive than in Las Vegas; though it looks a little gloomy on the day in question. It's cooler, which means she can wear a blue dress with a loose skirt and a modest neckline—perfect for concealing the Beretta strapped to her thigh and the butterfly knife stuck in her bra. She can't help but smile at that lame setup they called "security;" they hadn't made her walk through a metal detector, instead letting her go without a fuss when they saw the fake press credentials around her neck. She reminds herself to send—she looks down at the tag, frowning when she doesn't remember—Victoria Vale at the _Gotham Gazette_ a fruit basket when all of this is over because she's probably going to have a pretty hard week, what with all the cops swarming her place.

Still, Felicity should be grateful, in spite of her foul temper; her skills, well-known in the right circles, have earned her the ability to travel around and be a part of some pretty historical moments. After all, no one can forget the day Sebastian Blood took that sniper round in his head—the police never caught the shooter hanging around in the crowd, and it's still an open case. And then there was the Gholem Qadir thing in Markovia, where the terrorist-turned-businessman was trying to gain support for a political career. The creep was hitting on Felicity all night, which turned out well for her because it gave her access to him and his suite. She walked out without a scratch, but Qadir wasn't so lucky. He was too busy bleeding from the throat to call for help.

And now, here she is at Starling City's event of the season, the marriage of Tommy Merlyn and Laurel Lance. The two had become a sensation over the past five years, following the "death" and return of Oliver Queen. Everyone had thought that Laurel and Oliver would become Starling's sweethearts again—or had hoped it would lead to love triangle drama to sell more tabloids—but Oliver had, apparently, stepped back and let his ex and his best friend create something beautiful together. Surprisingly enough, he's also there to be Tommy's best man.

Part of Felicity hates that she has to ruin a wedding, but she doesn't exactly have a choice. If she refused, well, the guy who hired her would send a rank amateur in her place who probably doesn't know a sword from a sniper rifle and wouldn't think twice about collateral damage. Not to mention that would be a million dollars in someone else's untraceable, off-shore account, and she's rather in need of the juicy paycheck. After all, a girl has to eat, and it _is_ a recession out there. The bad guys don't have as much money to pay her exorbitant fees as they used to, and so she's been left to amass her fortune rather slowly.

She sinks down in her seat, tapping the pen in her hand against her notepad—both props in the elaborate game she plays. She sighs deeply, and a creaking noise informs her that the seat next to her has been taken. She doesn't look up because she only cares about her target and no one else, but whomever it is has other ideas. "You don't look too excited about covering this story," he says in a low tone, a smile in his voice. Felicity turns to look at him, surprised to find intense blue eyes focused on her. His hair is a close-cut brown and his jaw is covered with the beginnings of a beard. His smile is blinding, and now she knows why her employers warned her about the charm of Oliver Queen's smile.

She plays the part well, stepping right into a flirty smile of her own as she turns toward him, placing her elbow on top of the folding chair's back. "Well," she answers dryly, "covering the social event of the season isn't really Pulitzer-worthy writing." She holds out her hand, pretending to be interested. "Victoria Vale, but my friends call me Vicki."

"Nice to meet you, Vicki," he says with a charming smile, and she gives him extra points for slipping himself into friend status with ease. "I'm Oliver Queen."

She winks. "Oh, I'm aware—I'm covering the social section, remember?" She rolls her eyes. "I was _supposed_ to be working on an article about the next mayoral election here in Starling—what with Mr. Blood dying and the special election—but one of the girls left spontaneously and now I'm covering the scene."

He opens his mouth to say something more, but a girl with brown hair and brown eyes pulls on his arm. She glares at Felicity, but she isn't interesting in starting a scene with Thea Queen. "Ollie," she whines a little, "you're going to be late for your best friend's wedding." She huffs. "Get her name, and you can resume trying to get into her pants later, okay?" She stomps off almost immediately.

Oliver winces, and Felicity bites back a smile at the reaction. "I'm sorry about my sister," he starts slowly, "but I'm not sorry about getting the chance to meet you." It almost seems like a sincere statement, and, for a moment, she feels a little sorry for lying to him.

"We can talk after," she lies with a fake smile that seems to do its job, and then she slides out of her seat as soon as he's out of sight. All it takes is a conversation to security about needing the bag with her sensitive photography equipment, and they hand it to her, never once thinking that maybe her sniper rifle is in there. But, then again, maybe they don't expect someone to be paid for a hit on this momentous occasion.

It takes her a short walk to make it to the intended meet building, and Felicity stops in a restroom to change into more conducive clothing. She replaces her dress with a pair of dark jeans and a black, v-neck shirt. Her black leather jacket is pulled on next, and she fastens the two buttons on the collar as she slips her feet into the black stilettos she's almost known for now. The only picture she's allowed to surface of her (Deadshot was taking credit for her hits, and she'll be damned if she'll let a rookie profit off of her name) showed her wearing those heels: black with a pointed toe and a red sole, but with a silver serpent coiled around the stiletto itself.

They've started calling her Eve since, and she kind of likes the nickname.

The prop glasses go back in their case, and she makes sure her contacts are in place before piling her hair up in a messy bun and out of the way of her line of vision. The Beretta goes into the holster at the small of her back, and the butterfly knife gets readjusted in her bra so that it doesn't show. The last thing she does is pull on the black leather gloves she uses to prevent leaving fingerprints, and then she decides she's good to go. The clothes go back into the backpack, and then she's heading up to the top floor of the building across from the park.

Her clients are already there, judging by the sound in the room, so she pulls on the black mask that covers the top half of her face, with a set of curling, crimson lines drawn around the right eye. It's silly and dramatic, she supposes, but it does keep everyone from learning her true identity. Her voice synthesizer, a white, round device she clips onto her belt, comes next and she twists it on before walking into the empty expanse of the abandoned building. "I hope I'm not late," she says while walking in, and her voice sounds in five tones at once. Not even she can distinguish which one is hers, so she figures it's a good device. "I was scanning the setup." She drops the bag, pulling out the disassembled parts of her rifle and starting to put them together. "I don't think it will be a problem—the outdoor setting is a plus, and the target is in the first row."

A woman's voice speaks up, cold and calculating, but also somewhat motherly. "And you're sure you can take down the target without injuring anyone else? Tommy Merlyn is like a son to me—and if he's injured, the payment won't be made." She laughs softly. "Though you must be a trusting soul, if you wait until after services are rendered to receive payment."

Felicity turns back to her, surprised when she recognizes the woman. Blonde and poised, there's no question that none other than Moira Queen has ordered the hit. She has to hold back a scoff because the Queen family has more problems than her own: the son is a womanizing rake, the daughter is a spoiled brat, and the mother orders hits on longtime friends. She figured there would be more to this family than meets the eye, and she's glad to be right.

Felicity snaps the rifle together violently, and the woman jumps slightly. It's an effective tactic, she has learned, to establish who is in control of the situation, and Felicity has learned that very few argue with the person holding the high-powered rifle—especially when they also has a reputation for dropping bodies. "I'm very good at what I do, Mrs. Queen," she replies coolly. "I believe that's why you hired me—because I'm efficient and precise." She leans against the assembled gun, offering a crimson smile. "I make sure my clients are satisfied before asking for payment. And, if by any chance you think you can receive my services for a steal, I'll remind you that I have your name and I know where you live. The last person to try and… _renegotiate_ my terms ended up receiving one of my bullets himself—_after_ sending me double the agreed upon payment." She casually looks at her fingernails, acting bored. "I find I can be _very_ persuasive when I have a knife and a blowtorch."

Moira Queen looks very much daunted—as she should be. She opens her mouth to speak, but Felicity cuts her off. "You should leave before anyone sees you here," she insists sternly. "I'll call you when the job is done, and I'll expect receipt of payment in the twenty-four hours following." Moira starts to walk away, and Felicity can't resist one last parting shot. "Give my congratulations to the happy couple."

She doesn't get a response, and she doesn't expect one. But, out of courtesy, Felicity does wait until vows are exchanged and the happy couple is married before taking aim. After all, it's going to put enough of a damper on their wedding, and she's a very considerate person. If she's going to kill his father, well, she's going to make sure it doesn't interfere with the wedding. It's the least she can do, really.

Moira's eyes keep flicking up toward the building, and Felicity frowns. If she'd known the client would be here, she never would have agreed to the terms—clients screw everything up because they know what's going to happen next. It's so obvious that even Oliver I've-been-making-eyes-at-Sara-Lance-through-the-entire-ceremony Queen looks at his mother with eyebrows knitting in confusion, and Felicity mutters a curse under her breath. This is _precisely_ why she doesn't work with amateurs.

Finally, Tommy and Laurel are married, and then she takes the first opportunity to line up a shot. She factors in wind speed and all the other things she has to know about before trying to use that anatomy knowledge she's studied to picture his heart inside his chest.

And, with one squeeze of the trigger, she sends a bullet through it.

Or perhaps _would_ have sent a bullet through it, if Moira Queen had sat in place and not decided to get up. Malcolm leans forward to help her up, and then the bullet goes through his shoulder, just a few inches shy of the mark. She lets out a growl of frustration before releasing the casing and attempting to try again, but, by then, security has already swarmed around him and the opportunity is gone.

There's nothing to do for now. Her position is known, her target is no longer clear, and her only option is to pull out before she gets swarmed by police. But that doesn't mean she's done with him—it's just simply time for Plan B. As she disassembles the rifle and throws it back in her backpack, she starts making a mental list of what she'll need. They'll move him to the hospital, so she'll need access. A cop uniform will do the trick, and then an ID badge—easy enough for her to forge on short notice. She'll have to brush up on her hierarchy of cops, but it shouldn't take that long since she's familiar with it. After all, it was only a few weeks ago she had taken down Blood by putting herself in uniform. She'll need a new name for it, just in case they try to look into A. Jones again, and then maybe a brunette wig because she needs to look different. Then some good old cyanide in the IV bag, and then she'll be on a plane to a country with a non-extradition policy to find work for a while.

The worst part of it will be trying to learn Russian.

She packs up her things and turns to leave, but is surprised to find a dark figure standing in one corner of the building. All it takes is the bow, and she realizes this is the mysterious archer that has been making jobs in Starling City so hard for some of the amateurs in the past year or so. She supposes he means to be menacing, but Felicity has spent a lifetime putting bullets in people who mean to be menacing.

"Are you here to tell me I've failed this city?" she asks him casually. "Because I'll give you a hint—I'm not even a Starling citizen." She looks down at the crowd through the window behind her. "And I haven't actually killed anyone yet—though the day is still young." She holds up her hands. "But, hey, let's call this a wash. I'll walk out of my million-dollar payday"—she sounds incredibly forlorn about it without trying, even though it's a complete lie—"and we can try this again when there's actually a dead body on the ground." He doesn't say anything, and she puts her bag over her shoulder, taking his silence as agreement.

She makes two steps before the arrow flies in front of her nose. "Well, _that's_ just rude," she states flatly. "Here I am, _completely_ defenseless"—he snorts once, and she rolls her eyes at her own lie—"and you're shooting arrows in my general direction while completely ignoring me. I'm starting to think I imagined you—like the five seconds I hallucinated with that pot brownie in college before they pumped my stomach." His head tilts to the side and she explains, "I'm allergic to nuts."

He ignores the statement completely when he speaks. "I want the name of your client," he says in a deep, synthesized voice that _might_ make the hairs on the back of her neck stand up straight. Her model of synthesizer sounds cooler, but his makes up for it in sheer growly-voice.

She shrugs. "And I want a TX-50 satellite frequency communicator," she answers immediately, causing his mouth to turn down in confusion. "But since they don't come out for another three months, well, I think we're about as likely to get what we want right now." She crosses her arms. "A lot of very powerful men and women get in bed with me because they know I don't reveal my clients to anyone." She frowns. "And that made me seem like a hooker and not a hitter, but you know what I mean." She waves a hand. "Believe me, I'd like nothing more to serve up my client on a silver platter after this fiasco they caused today, but I have a reputation to uphold, Merida." The insult is lost on him, and she rolls her eyes. "I don't kiss and tell."

"You can use your right to remain silent when the police come, then," he answers, and suddenly the bow is taut. She rolls her eyes, but another arrow, this one slicing across her calf, makes her see red—and that's not just because of the blood starting to pour from the wound. She falls to her feet, but she looks up at him with defiant eyes as she lets her bag slide from her shoulder.

"Oh, Merida," she starts, shaking her head as she rises again, "that was a horrible mistake." She puts weight on her leg, and it hurts like hell, but she manages to remain standing anyway. "We started off on the wrong foot here. I'm trying to work with you, but when you start throwing arrows at me, well it makes me cry inside. In my special angry place." She frowns. "And, well, I was so looking forward to killing someone today, so I think you just volunteered to help me work out a few anger issues."

He looks at her with narrowed eyes, probably confused about why she thinks she's going to kill him when she doesn't have a weapon in her hands. "Sure, I was only paid for the one hit," she continues casually, "but you've been enough trouble I'll do you for free." She winces at the way her words come out, and she's not the only one who notices, judging by the smirk on his face. "Not like that," she clarifies quickly, trying to ignore the way her cheeks heat. "I meant, you know, as in shoot you, not as in have sex with you." Her eyes rove over him again. "Not that you're not attractive—I mean, I'd have to be blind not to appreciate the way that green leather clings." Her mouth moves with no sound for a moment, and she realizes that sound he just made was a chuckle. "But, yeah, killing you. Which I'm almost glad to do now because I kind of want to die of embarrassment." She pulls the gun from her back then and fires quickly before sliding her backpack over one shoulder. She doesn't have to watch it to know it hit home, so she turns on her heel and starts to walk away.

She stops abruptly when the arrow slices through her right shoulder.

The pain sears through her shoulder and she falls. She throws her arms out in front of her to catch herself, and she lets out a cry when pain jolts through her already injured shoulder. A quick glance shows her the arrowhead, which means it pierces through both sides. She turns, snarling, "You son of a bitch."

"You shot me first," he reminds her, and she turns to find him clutching his chest, blood streaming from between his fingers. Her eyes narrow at him, wondering how he's still standing, but the thought is pushed away when she hears the sirens below.

She expects him to leave, to walk away without another word, but the Vigilante seems full of surprises. Instead he walks toward her, even as she draws her gun again, and then he offers her his hand in an open gesture. "You're not going to make it far like that," he says quietly. "Let me help you."

"Yeah, I'm going to avoid that offer because you're the one who put the arrow in me," she spits angrily. "And besides, my mother always warned me about going to new places with strange men."

He chuckles before replying, "The cops will be on you before you can leave." It's a valid point and she knows he's right, but he still hesitates. "And you're not going to find many people in this city who can take an arrow out of your shoulder and won't inform the police. I can."

She hesitates because he seems to be making sense, but that's not a good sign for her own sanity. "Still," she insists, "I have no reason to trust you. You have no reason to trust me, either. So why would you help me and _not_ serve me up on a silver platter to the cops?"

"Because you're skilled," he says finally. "Because you have information I need to save this city, and I think I could put your skills to better use." He hesitates so completely, falters so sincerely that she believes him, despite the way every fiber in her being screams not to trust him.

She takes his hand anyway, and he pulls her to her feet. "I need a knife to cut this shaft," he says firmly, holding out his hand as if expecting her to give him a weapon. Again, she doesn't like it, but she can hear the police getting closer and she's running out of options. Reluctantly, she reaches under her shirt and pulls it from her bra, handing it to a very stunned Vigilante.

He turns her around, and she jumps when agony courses through her shoulder. Then Felicity feels the knife slide into her back pocket before he pulls the shaft from her shoulder, and she bites through her lip hard enough that she tastes blood. The police burst through the door, and, before she can act, the Vigilante fires an arrow and then he's scooping up her backpack with one arm while simultaneously wrapping his other arm around her waist.

He pulls her as he jumps through the broken window, and she bites back a scream as she wraps her arms around him, praying that they get through this alive. She _hates_ heights—which is, apparently, a new development she didn't know about herself. "Oh, thank God," she mutters when they land, and she nearly falls again because gravity is _not_ her friend after flying through the air. He steadies her with a hand, fishing something out of his pocket: a set of keys.

It takes her a moment to realize that they're by a motorcycle now, and she groans as he passes her a helmet. "I hate you so much right now," she mutters to him, and it earns her a smile. "It's not funny—I think I'm going to put another bullet in you by the time all this is over."

She thinks the threat might be rendered ineffective because she snatches the helmet out of his hands anyway.

* * *

><p>It might possibly be the most ridiculous thought in the world, but after blinking several times, Felicity is convinced that it's not a dream and the man standing in front of her is Oliver Queen. Her first coherent thoughts are out of her mouth in an instant: "Wow, I <em>really<em> underestimated you—so much for you being just a manwhore."

He blinks twice at the description, and the man behind them—the one who Oliver was probably talking to on the headset during the drive—cracks a smile. "Are you two all right?" he asks quietly, studying them both.

"We're fine," Oliver answers sharply, as though the man is interrupting.

"Are you kidding me?" Felicity snaps as she pulls off the mask and pulls the elastic band out of her hair violently, and Oliver's eyes widen as he looks at her for the first time since they ran into one another at the wedding. "We aren't _fine!_" She waves a hand wildly, frowning when it hurts her injured shoulder. "I've had an arrow through my shoulder today, been swung around on a very _thin_ piece of wire, and been driven around town on a motorcycle by Evel Knievel here." She crosses her arms. "I don't think that qualifies as being _fine_."

"_You're_ Eve?" Oliver asks her, then shakes his head. "Apparently I underestimated you, too." He chuckles. "So much for you being just a reporter."

She takes a moment to pull off her jacket, and Oliver's eyes go wide once more as she pulls off the v-neck shirt, but by the time she's pulled it off and stripped down to her undershirt, he's looking away. She examines the nasty spot in her shoulder with a frown. "I'm going to be stuck shooting left-handed for a few weeks, I think," she mutters, and only then does Oliver look up at her. Louder, she continues, "And I'm not a reporter. I have no idea who the hell Veronica Vale is, but she's not me. I just stole the press credentials." She bites her lip before deciding to give him her name. "It's actually Felicity Smoak."

Oliver hesitates before asking louder, "Digg, could you please put in calls to Tommy and Detective Lance? I'd like to know what's going on with Malcolm Merlyn—and how close they are to figuring this out." Felicity thinks he _might_ be trying to get them alone—and so does Digg, if his expression is any indication—but she doesn't say anything. After all, his bow is in the corner, and her Beretta is still at her back.

She expects him to launch into something, but instead he motions to the gurney in the middle of the room. "Let me treat that wound for you," he says casually, and she can't bring herself to do anything but what he asks. She feels odd sitting there, with her legs dangling off the edge, and surprisingly vulnerable without her mask. Finally, after a long moment of digging through the box for suture and other medical supplies, he says, "It must be a lonely life, doing what you do." He surprises her because he doesn't call her a killer, doesn't call her cruel or evil or sick or twisted. There's no judgment in his tone; only conversation.

Usually she clams up when someone asks her about work, but she sees no need to hide from Oliver Queen. "It's complicated," she admits finally. "I never feel lonely until I'm in a crowd, watching people be ridiculously happy. And then I realize that, because I close off a part of myself to the world, I'll never have that. And then I wonder if anyone _truly_ knows someone else—that maybe everyone has that other side, but theirs isn't so definable." She shrugs. "It's a jaded, cynical view of the world, but I think that if I didn't think that way, I couldn't have this job." She tilts her head to the side, wincing as he prods at the wound. "But I also think you know what I mean."

He doesn't confirm it, but Felicity puts more weight in the fact that he also doesn't deny it. "I think you could be of more use here," he starts abruptly after a long, silent moment, and she looks up from the wound to meet his eyes. "I saw the shot—it would have been good if Mr. Merlyn hadn't moved at the last moment. I've followed your work since the Blood incident, and you're an excellent shot—proficient with several different weapons." He studies her for a moment. "And if the hacks on SCPD are any indication, you're also good with computers. We could use that here."

She's already shaking her head by the time he finishes. "This work doesn't pay," she answers first. "You probably don't get that because you're a billionaire, but I can't live for the rest of my life on what I have." She bites her lip, now finding it awkward because her client is _his mother_. "And my client will expect me to try again."

"Malcolm Merlyn will be untouchable now," he says flatly, moving back to the supply cabinet for the suture and antiseptic he left there. When he returns, Felicity decides he's way too close and that he probably shouldn't be standing between her legs.

"Sebastian Blood was untouchable, too," she retorts. "And so was Gholem Qadir." She crosses her arms, interrupting his methodical process of patching her up. "Killing untouchable people is what I do, Oliver. I'm good at it. It's not exactly rewarding, but it's kind of like being a garbage collector. It's not a pretty job, but someone has to do it."

"It doesn't have to be you," he answers firmly, and she wonders why this is so important to him suddenly. Then he falters for a moment, and, when he resumes speaking, he's focused on the suture and not looking at her. "I've killed, too. Some of them deserved it—some of them didn't. But all of them haunt me." He looks at her then. "And I think they haunt you, too."

She frowns because he's right, and because she now knows why this is important to him. It's not about saving _her_; it's about trying to save himself, to absolve himself of the guilt of what he's done. No one understands that better than Felicity.

He's finished with her wound by the time he decides to speak again, but he hasn't moved. "With your IT background, I could probably convince Walter to hire you. That would take care of the job issue. Then you could work with us and help me take down the men who pollute this city." The passion at the end of that sentence is fierce, and Felicity almost finds herself wanting to join now. He makes it sound so easy, so simple, and she's running out of arguments.

She extends her hand to him, and a smile spreads across his face when he shakes it.

She puts her hands on his shoulders to steady herself, but she hops down from the gurney, despite the fact he's standing in front of her. He moves back fast enough, steadying her with a hand at her elbow. She's eye-level with the bullet she put in his shoulder, and her first reaction is to take care of it.

She turns him, pushing him back toward the gurney, and he takes the hint, raising himself up to sit on it. "You take care of me, I take care of you," she states with a partial smile, and then she's unzipping the jacket for him. She doesn't expect him to be shirtless underneath, but she is _totally_ okay with that.

This alliance might just be better than she expected.

* * *

><p>Oliver has never been as glad to have Felicity on his team as today, as one of Cyrus Vanch's men points a gun at him. "Ventilate him," Vanch calls from his position near his hostage. Laurel looks terrified, but she also has some defiance left in her eyes as she watches the scene play out in front of her. She also looks uninjured, which means that Oliver is going to keep his promises, one to Tommy and one to Detective Lance.<p>

Oliver opens his mouth to make the command, but the gunshot cuts him off. Felicity is just as in step with him as always, and the man intent on killing Oliver howls in pain. "Getting shot in the hand is a bitch," she says to him through the synthesizer, "but the worst part for you will be needing someone to zip your pants for the next six weeks." She shrugs. "But at least you'll remember what happens when you go after my friends."

He can't fight back a chuckle because the statement is just completely Felicity—equal parts loyalty and morbid humor—and she puts her hand on his arm. "Are you okay?" He nods once in assurance, but his eyes are already on the other side of the room, where Lance has his gun to Vanch's head.

Felicity notices, too, and, since Oliver is now out of arrows, she pulls a knife from her belt and throws it lazily. It knocks the gun out of Lance's hand without touching him, and he glares at her for a moment before he realizes he's staring at none other than the infamous Eve. "I'm the former assassin, not you," she tells him. "Laurel needs you, so maybe you should go to her and let us"—she motions between herself and Oliver—"deal with the vigilante stuff."

As they make quick work of tying up the men they took down, he takes a moment to think about how glad he is to have Felicity on his team. Though Diggle is excellent with a long-range scope and a sniper rifle, Felicity has enough weaponry background to pick off targets with a rifle or to walk into a room and start shooting and throwing knives. On one particular occasion, she even snatched up his bow and an arrow from his quiver to stop a man closing in on Oliver, stopping him before he could do any damage. It was a fair shot, and she's been improving since.

A hand drops on his shoulder, and he looks up to find her standing over him, switching off the synthesizer on her belt for a moment. She leans over to whisper in her ear, "Lance's backup is coming, and we're already late for your mom's campaign party. We need to get out of here."

He nods once before calling across the room, "Detective, I'll let you take care of this—we have to go." He rises to his feet before stating into his comm, "Digg, we're taking the bike—make sure our bags are in. We'll drop our weapons with you."

"Roger that," is Digg's answer.

At the same time, Lance quips, "You two have a hot date tonight?" Oliver notices that Felicity flushes slightly at the implication, but then Lance waves a hand. "Don't worry, the responding officers can take care of the rest of this."

"Until the next time," Felicity says to him over her shoulder, synthesizer back on again. She tugs on Oliver's arm before he can speak, and he follows her out.

What follows is a frenzied run back to the van, weapons and equipment going into the van haphazardly. Oliver turns in his bow, quiver, and wristband full of darts, but it takes Felicity considerably longer to turn in five throwing knives, two guns, and something that resembles a machete that he didn't even know she was carrying. He gives her an odd look, and she just smiles in response.

He reaches for a helmet from the storage area as they move to the bike, but she shakes her head. "No time," she insists, so he slides onto the bike, knowing she's probably right. She hops on behind him, and as soon as her arms are on him, he's taking off, pressing the bike just as fast as it will go.

He tries to ignore the way her legs are flush with his, the way one of her hands presses into her stomach as she checks her phone. "Right at this next light," she says in his ear, and he has to put that into the ever growing box of things to ignore in close proximity to Felicity Smoak. It was a box in his head he didn't have at first, but since working with her for the past year, it's a very rare night when he _doesn't_ have something new to put into it.

With her directions from the GPS, she guides them to the building with ten minutes to spare, giving them twice the time he'd expected to have. They park the bike in the back and he carries their bags from the storage compartment. Felicity shoots the lock off of one of the rooms using her gun with a silencer, and, when they enter, Oliver positions himself against the door as they start digging through their bags.

"So, that went well," Felicity says conversationally, and Oliver isn't sure he trusts himself to speak as she strips off her black tank top, exposing a black strapless bra—along with the sleek butterfly knife she seems to keep stored there. They've had to change together several times over the past year since she joined he and Diggle in their crusade, but every time it's getting harder and harder for him to take his eyes off her. He isn't even sure she realizes it, which makes it even more unbearable.

"I mean, it wasn't my favorite thing I've ever done," she continues, oblivious as always, "but at least Vanch won't be going after any more lawyers." She bites her lip, and it takes a special kind of restraint to keep him from doing something stupid. "I'm just glad Laurel's okay—she seems to be doing some actual _good_ in this city for a change." Her eyes fall on him for a moment as he strips off the leather pants, but then her face heats and she looks away.

Oliver realizes he isn't the _only_ one with a box of thoughts that stay locked up.

In a higher-pitched voice, she continues, "And I really like Tommy—he's a nice guy. He came to my rescue when that creepy investor at the QC Christmas Party kept hitting on me." Oliver lifts an eyebrow at her, and she shrugs. "I mean, it wasn't necessary—I probably could have taken him down before even _he_ knew it—but it was nice." Suddenly her dark jeans are around her ankles, and Oliver doesn't quite know where to look for a moment. (Well, he _does_ know—he isn't dead—but he doesn't think he _should_ be looking there.) "It's nice to know chivalry isn't dead," she continues.

Oliver shakes his head because Felicity seems to talk more than any one person he's ever met in his life, but he knows she doesn't expect him to answer. It's her way of breaking up any awkwardness—and it used to work in the beginning.

Not so much now, though.

Finally, though, Oliver clears his throat and contributes something to the conversation, if only to break up the monotony of feeling like she's talking to herself. "Tommy went over there because he was afraid I'd put an arrow in him," he states flatly, and while he's focused on buttoning his shirt, he can feel her eyes on him. "That was when we were trying not act like we knew one another, and I didn't like seeing you uncomfortable and doing nothing about it."

They had tried for a while to pretend they were casual acquaintances, but it only made the rumors spread like wildfire since Oliver spent so much time talking to her at the office—either about a plan for a mission or intel on a target. Even Oliver's own mother had confronted him about it, and they'd decided it would be better if they weren't trying to sneak around. The plan had worked; after only a few weeks, the press had moved on to another story and the gossip had changed to something else.

Felicity laughs in response, though the sound is a little nervous compared to her genuine laugh. "Well, I think that Ray Palmer was probably in more danger from me. You weren't armed, but _I_ was." She hesitates for a moment as she slides into the dress, letting the bodice of the evening gown pool around her waist while she slips on her heels for the evening. He realizes that both are emerald green, and he chooses to believe she did it on purpose. "Does Tommy know about what I..." She trails off, her eyes going to that faraway place—probably one similar to Oliver's expression when he thinks about the island. "Does he know what I used to do?"

Oliver shakes his head firmly as he fastens his belt. "No," he assures her. "He knows you're working with me, but he doesn't know anything about your past." He offers her a slight smile. "Especially since they're calling you the Oracle now."

She slides the top half of the dress up, and he has to swallow when he sees the split all the way up one side, exposing her entire left leg when she moves just right. She turns toward him as she tugs at the halter of the dress, trying to fix it, and he notices that the sales tag is still hanging from the side of it. Without thinking, he pulls her hands away from the neckline as she looks at him with wide eyes, and he slides her knife loose from its hiding place. He cuts the tag from her hip and offers the knife back to her, and she falters for a moment before remembering to take it. Part of him wishes he'd been the one to slip it back into place, but he thinks it's better for both of them if he doesn't. "Thanks," she says quietly, and he only offers her a nod before moving back toward the door.

She resumes tugging at the halter, and he realizes she's having trouble fastening the rhinestone collar around her neck. He stops working with his tie for a moment to walk up behind her and fasten it into place. Then, without waiting for her to ask, he fastens the hook just above her bra and zips up the back of the dress. She lets out a stuttered set of breaths while he's touching her—probably because they've never crossed this line with one another before. Then she smiles as she turns, fastening his tie for him before readjusting her Beretta holster on the opposite leg so she doesn't flash it to anyone.

She turns back to her bag, pulling out an assortment of pins that she then proceeds to dump into his hands. He holds them dutifully as she pulls a brush, and, for someone without a mirror or a proper amount of time to get ready, she piles her blonde hair up on her head impressively fast and beautifully. She slips in a set of earrings, following it by applying makeup while staring at the brushed steel door. When she's finished, she turns to him with uncertainty across her features. "How do I look?"

"Stunning," he replies truthfully, his answer coming so fast that she smiles. He hesitates before adding, "Green is your color."

She flushes with the praise, as expected, but she waves a hand. "Well, it's _your_ color," she corrects, "but I'm just borrowing it for the night. Good to know the Arrow approves, though." The smile on her face is a little more teasing than usual, and part of him wants to know what it would feel like under his own mouth.

That goes into the box, too.

It takes them only a moment to return the bags to the bike, and he starts to feel the first jitters of nerves about being the one to introduce his mother's speech tonight. Even though he knows it by heart, he doesn't do public speeches very well—especially not now, since he despises having the spotlight on him.

Felicity notices—of course she does. They've been spending days and nights together for a year now, and she's just... _aware_ of him, the same way he's aware of her. She reaches out for his arm before asking, "Are you okay?" Her eyes fill with concern and her smile falters ever so slightly.

Knowing that lying is useless, he admits, "Giving speeches has never been my strong suit." He doesn't say anything else, but that's because he doesn't have to; she knows precisely what's wrong with him now.

"You'll do fine," she assures him, slipping her fingers through his as though it's the most natural thing in the world, even though she's never held his hand before. He offers her a smile, but they both know it's fake and she stops immediately. He watches indecision war through her features for a moment, and then she leans up on her toes and presses her lips against his cheek before brushing away evidence of lipstick. Then she puts her hands on either side of his face as she says, "If you can take down machine gun-wielding goons with only a bow and arrows, you can give a little, short speech for your mother."

He nods once, and he's not sure if it was the speech or the kiss that makes him believe her. "Thank you," he says finally as they reach the reserved ballroom, and Felicity waves her free hand as the other slides up to his bicep.

She's right; the speech goes off without a hitch, and his mother does an excellent job of her own. He and Felicity wander around the room separately, and she winks at him when he catches her eye once. Then Oliver's phone goes off, and he pulls away from the crowd to answer it.

"What's wrong, Digg?" he asks, knowing that he would only bother them if something was wrong. This was a major event for Moira Queen's mayoral campaign, after all, and the campaign manager has insisted that both of her children be there for support.

"Lance called," is the answer. "Apparently he needs to meet the Arrow about a shipment of stolen medicines in the Glades—says the police don't have any leads and that we might be able to come up with better leads than they have." He sounds just as thrilled about the idea as Oliver feels.

"Tell to call Felicity with the meet information," Oliver answers with a tired sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose. "I can't leave tonight—not with everything going on." Felicity appears at his arm almost immediately, a curious expression on her face. "Thanks for passing it on, Digg," he adds before hanging up, turning to her. "Lance has information on a hospital drug shipment that was hijacked. Can you take care of it on your own?"

She nods once, then bites her lip in hesitance. "I can," she answers slowly, "but I'll need to borrow you for a moment." Then she blurts out a little loudly, "I need you to get me out of this dress." Her face goes scarlet on the spot, and then she waves her hands frantically when his eyebrows shoot up. "Not like that. I just need you to help me with the zipper and the latches."

He leads her back toward the hallway with a hand at the small of her back. "I'd be glad to help you out of that dress," he answers, and he closes his eyes for a moment, wondering if her ability to make everything sound like an innuendo is contagious. Even though they both know it's a poor slip, he notes that her eyes darken at the idea.

It takes him all of five seconds to determine that the box in his head isn't big enough to hold thoughts like that.

He pulls her bag from the storage compartment of the motorcycle and then drops it into the small, unused room they changed in earlier. "You'll have to take the bike," he says by way of explanation, tossing her the keys, which she catches easily. "I'll have Diggle drive me home when this is over. I'd appreciate it if you would drop my bag off at the lair.

"No problem," she assures him as she continues pulling pins out of her hair, then replacing them with a bun at the nape of her neck that is already falling out of the elastic when she finishes with it, but she doesn't seem to mind.

He walks over to her then, and she lets out a frustrated growl as she looks at him, and then she's pulling on his tie again. "Your ties never stay where they're supposed to," she states flatly, sliding it up higher on his throat. Once she's satisfied with it, she makes sure his collar is in place before sliding her hands down his chest. He has no idea what his expression must show, but whatever it is, it makes her flush slightly and bite her lip.

He's fought it for so long that he doesn't feel like he can resist any longer. One moment she has her hands against his chest, the next his are at her hips as his mouth presses against hers with force. He doesn't expect her to respond as eagerly as she does, but she pulls the lapels of his suit coat toward her while pushing herself even closer against him. He pushes them back toward the wall as one hand wanders up to her bare shoulder, and she throws one arm around his neck while the other pulls on his tie more insistently. She throws a leg up over his hip when her back hits the wall, and, while he can feel her calf down the back of his thigh, it's her gun he feels at his hip. It should probably deter him, but it doesn't.

When they finally break apart, they're both breathing like they've run a marathon and his tie is now officially hopeless. Slowly he reaches at the back of her neck to undo the halter, then between her shoulder blades to slide the zipper down to the small of her back. Her breath hitches as she reaches up to catch the dress before it falls, and he can't resist the urge to place a kiss to her shoulder.

"Wow," Felicity blurts afterward, and he chuckles at her dazed expression. "That was even better than I dreamed about," she blurts, and then blushes again as her words catch up to her.

"I agree," Oliver answers, and her eyebrows shoot up in surprise as he smiles at her. Then he turns toward the door as she changes back into her clothes, deciding it might be adding fuel to the fire to watch her this time.

She taps him on the shoulder when she finishes, and then cups his jaw. "I'll catch you at the lair afterward," she assures him, and then she places her lips to his in a chaste kiss.

"I'll meet you there," he replies easily, still trying to figure out how the former assassin managed to turn his world upside down in the best possible way. They'll have to figure this out eventually, to analyze their relationship and what it means to their work, but that's for another time and another place.

She gives him a loaded look over her shoulder as she replies, "I'll look forward to it."

* * *

><p><em>Playlist:<em>

_"White Wedding" - Billy Idol_  
><em>"In the End" - My Chemical Romance<em>  
><em>"Modern Love" - David Bowie<em>  
><em>"21st Century Breakdown" - Green Day<em>  
><em>"It's All Your Fault" - P!nk<em>  
><em>"Welcome to the Jungle" - Guns 'n' Roses<em>  
><em>"What I've Done" - Linkin Park<em>  
><em>"Are You Gonna Be My Girl" - Jet<em>


End file.
